“I’m going to ask you some questions!” he said menacingly to Dale.
But Miss Cornelia stuck to her guns. Dale was not going to be bullied into any sort of confession, true or false, if she could help it—and from the way that the girl’s eyes returned with fascinated horror to the ghastly heap on the floor that had been Fleming, she knew that Dale was on the edge of violent hysteria.
“Do you mind covering that body first?” she asked crisply. The detective eyed her for a moment in a rather ugly fashion—then grunted ungraciously and, taking Fleming’s raincoat from the chair, threw it over the body. Dale’s eyes telegraphed her aunt a silent message of gratitude.
“Now—shall I telephone for the coroner?” persisted Miss Cornelia. The detective obviously resented her interference with his methods but he could not well refuse such a customary request.
“I’ll do it,” he said with a snort, going over to the city telephone. “What’s his number?”
“He’s not at his office; he’s at the Johnsons’,” murmured Dale.
Miss Cornelia took the telephone from Anderson’s hands.
“I’ll get the Johnsons’, Mr. Anderson,” she said firmly. The detective seemed about to rebuke her. Then his manner recovered some of its former suavity. He relinquished the telephone and turned back toward his prey.
“Now, what was Fleming doing here?” he asked Dale in a gentler voice.
Should she tell him the truth? No—Jack Bailey’s safety was too inextricably bound up with the whole sinister business. She must lie, and lie again, while there was any chance of a lie’s being believed.